


My stride is slowed by memory

by ParadifeLoft



Series: What do they know about friends [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Re-embodied elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadifeLoft/pseuds/ParadifeLoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curufin has, at least, adapted, if minimally, to living in a new body among modern humans, when Finrod finds himself newly arrived in the modern world as well. Though it's not as if the many years apart have done either of them much good when it comes to picking up where they left off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My stride is slowed by memory

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a shortfic request from Jubah/croclock on tumblr.
> 
> The setting is derived from a modern multiverse RP in which Curufin lives (not very functionally) in an apartment in New York City with Maglor, a reborn Thranduil, and a rescued-from-Westeros Sansa Stark from A Song of Ice and Fire.

Findaráto had picked up English more quickly than Curufinwë had even decided he might wish to understand it.

But that was just how his cousin worked, wasn't it - it was the same as what happened in Aman, as far as Curufinwë could tell from the snippets of Findaráto's old life that he dropped like breadcrumbs all over the sheets.

It didn't matter how miserable you were, how much you misliked where life had thrown you, as you kicked and screamed and wore the insides of your fingers raw clinging to splintering remnants of what you had; you put on a pleasant face and adapted and told yourself it was really not so bad and you were quite happy with all the good fortune you were allowed.

They'd moved into their own apartment (well, Curufinwë had moved and he'd dragged his cousin along with him because he could _see_ the bloody _guilt_ in his eyes whenever he looked at Macalaurë and it made him sick) after Sansa had come home to find them shouting at one another, Curufinwë's eye bruised and his nose and lip bleeding and Findaráto shoved against the wall and held there by Curufinwë's forearm against his neck.

It was a lie, of course, when they agreed that there was only one bed because a part-time salary repairing jewelry didn't leave a lot of money for extra furniture or extra heat ( _I'm married now_ , Findaráto had said; _you were engaged before, and once again you have no reason to believe you'll ever see her again_ , Curufinwë replied). Not that it made much difference in how Curufinwë curled against Findaráto's back in the night, face buried against his neck and fingers clenched in his golden hair (now chopped to just barely curl against his collar in back), sick with rage mingled in loss.

The Oath, and what happened in Nargothrond, neither were ever spoken of, and when they got a little too close to the topics, even sometimes just mentioning anything but the day-to-day logistics of sharing a spare couple rooms, the poor insulation seemed to become even poorer and it was entirely useless for Curufinwë to ask Findaráto if he'd seen the paring knife or the measuring spoons.

The one time when Curufinwë had pushed after Findaráto went stony, politely silent, Findaráto had shouted, and shouted, and cursed him, and  almost cried and come very near to hitting him and throwing him to the floor.

Curufinwë had only whispered something like an apology, into the mess of his blankets and his hair and the empty dead thing that had nested in his soul, when it had been nearly a week since he'd last left his bed, and Findaráto had already left to visit with his brother without saying a word.


End file.
